milk of a lowly hooves

page views:1 Publication date:2023-03-23

Before it happened, I couldn't have predicted things would turn out this way. But since it has already happened, no one can change it, and we can only accept what has happened. Although I don't regret facing this reality, most people in this society can't accept it.
My name is Song Yingxue, and I'm thirty-seven years old. I'm just an ordinary office worker with a husband I met in college and a fourteen-year-old son in his second year of junior high school. Our life is ordinary, but our family is quite harmonious. Things started to change about a year ago with an unexpected pregnancy. After graduating from college and having our son, my husband and I didn't plan to have a second child and had always maintained the habit of using contraception. But somehow, perhaps heaven wanted to give us this daughter, or maybe the condom leaked (haha!), after getting pregnant, we treated her like an unexpected treasure and gave birth to her, raising her well. My husband said we should name her the same as our son's name; our son is called Yuzhong, and our daughter is called Yuru, which sounds quite nice.
My son was overjoyed to have a little sister in the family. After all, he'd been an only child for over a decade, and it would be a lie to say
he wasn't lonely. Although helping to care for his sister added a responsibility for him, becoming a big brother at fourteen, the birth of a new life in the family always brings joy. Being a mother is nothing new to me, but raising a baby again after more than a decade is a lot of getting used to, and my breasts growing larger was the first thing I had to adjust to. Because my breasts needed to produce milk, they grew considerably. They were already a large 32E, but after pregnancy they grew to 32g, prompting me to pull out my maternity bras, which had been gathering dust since giving birth to my son, from the bottom of the drawer. Fortunately, my postpartum exercise routine worked well, and my waistline quickly returned to 24 inches. Many friends I hadn't seen for over a year were surprised that I suddenly had a child and that my figure was still the same as before pregnancy (not counting the two-cup increase in my breasts, of course).
Breastfeeding should be a sweet and warm experience, but only when the mother is well-rested and the baby hasn't grown teeth yet. My daughter is ten months old now, and she has four teeth in total, both upper and lower. I often have to endure the pain in my nipples from her teething while breastfeeding. If I can bear that, the most unbearable thing is mastitis. My baby doesn't eat much, and a lot of milk isn't finished, but I seem to have a lot of milk. Often, after feeding, I'm so exhausted I collapse and fall asleep, only to wake up with my breasts full again. Sometimes, the unexpressed milk gets blocked, resulting in mastitis—all four symptoms at once: redness, swelling, heat, and pain.
Although I recently bought a breast pump (we didn't have these before; we always expressed by hand), I really can't use it when I have inflammation. Forcing milk out with the machine only causes pain, and my two large breasts are so swollen and engorged that I can't move them. Luckily, a former colleague recommended a lactation consultant she knew, and gave me her phone number to try. After putting my baby to sleep, I called the consultant's studio and found it was only a three-minute walk from my house. They even had a crib for my baby to rest in—it was so convenient! My husband was at work and my son was at school, and no one was home, so I couldn't leave my daughter at home. It was great to have a place for her to continue sleeping. It
was a bit chilly outside in October, not cold, but I thought I'd wear stockings before going out to keep my legs warm. Maybe it's a habit from work, but I always feel a little insecure without stockings. I changed my clothes and went out. A few minutes later, I arrived at the studio with my daughter in my arms. The first floor looked like a very ordinary aromatherapy massage studio. It seemed they also did lactation massage? The exterior looked quite nice.
"Hello, I've booked a lactation massage."
"Okay, Ms. Song, this way please."
The room was filled with the scent of woody essential oils, which gave me a calming and comfortable feeling. The female masseuse led me into a dimly lit room, had me put Yuru in the small cradle next to me, and then took off my top and bra and laid them aside. I lay face up on the massage bed, ready for her massage.
"Miss, your breasts are quite beautiful. Has anyone ever said that?" The masseuse chatted with me while draping a towel over my abdomen to keep me warm.
"No, they've all changed shape after childbirth."
I felt a little embarrassed by the compliment. Although I knew my breasts were already quite nice because they were teardrop-shaped, and after giving birth they hadn't sagged but instead became even larger and more elastic, and although my nipples had changed from pink to dark red and had enlarged along with my areolas, it was unavoidable for breastfeeding.
"I'm serious, miss, I wish my breasts were as big and beautiful as yours." Even though my breasts spread out to the sides after I lay down, I knew they were very elastic and still looked quite nice even lying down. Hearing the masseuse say that made me feel a little flattered. Having beautiful breasts is something to be proud of, isn't it? It's a pity my husband has rarely been intimate with me since I gave birth. I guess he's just unlucky.
The masseuse first draped a warm towel soaked in hot water over my chest, which immediately relieved the swelling and pain. After removing the towel, she gently pressed on the more swollen areas of my breasts and then began skillfully massaging around my areolas. It was painful at first, but with the masseuse's deft movements, the swelling and pain gradually disappeared. I couldn't help but admire her technique; when I tried to massage the lumps at home, all I experienced was pain. It seems the profession of lactation consultant is truly skilled. As
I slowly enjoyed the masseuse's circular massage, I felt my breasts softening.
I felt so glad I had listened to my colleague's recommendation and sought help from a lactation consultant; otherwise, I would have been in agony trying to breastfeed my baby at home, and the pain of expressing milk when my mastitis was flaring up would have been unbearable.
Just as my breast massage was relaxing my entire body, the masseuse's phone, which was lying next to her, suddenly vibrated. She hadn't intended to answer, but her phone vibrated twice for several tens of seconds. She opened it, glanced at it, and picked up, speaking with a slightly panicked tone. It seemed her son had been injured at school or something; her expression was very tense.
"I'm sorry, Ms. Song, my son had a little accident. May I leave for a moment?" She held the phone, covering the receiver, and asked for my permission apologetically.
"It's alright, it's alright. Go ahead if you need to. I'm fine." "But the treatment here isn't finished yet..." She tilted her head, thinking for a moment, "and it might take me a while to get back. Can I ask a colleague to take over the massage for you?" "Sure, no problem. Go ahead, I'm fine here," I urged her anxiously. Having a son in middle school myself, I understood her anxiety.
The masseuse covered my chest with a towel, took her phone, and left the room. I vaguely heard her talking to her colleague. I lay on the massage bed and glanced to my side; my baby was still sleeping soundly.
Two knocks were heard, and then the massage room door opened a crack.
"Hello, Ms. Song. My colleague asked me to continue your treatment." Huh? A man? Lying on the bed, I was momentarily at a loss.
"Yes... but the lady just now didn't say a man was coming..." "Uh... I'm sorry, the only colleagues on duty right now are Ms. Zhang and me. I also have a lactation consultant's license. Of course, if it's inconvenient for Ms. Song, we can refund your money." My mind was a bit of a mess. Although it was a bit strange that it was a man, he said he had a license, so it must be true, right? It should be like a breast surgeon or something, it should be okay... right?
"It's alright, please continue, thank you."
"Okay."
In the dimly lit room, the male masseur pushed open the door and walked in. He looked like a young man who was probably not even thirty years old, and he was also wearing the uniform of this studio.
"Yes, Ms. Song, if you feel uncomfortable later, you can stop at any time, and we will refund your money." "Okay." Perhaps to avoid making the female customer feel embarrassed, he emphasized again that she could stop and get a refund.
After confirming again, the masseur lifted the towel covering my breasts. I don't know if it was my imagination, but I felt the masseur swallow? Was he embarrassed? But I was probably the more embarrassed one. After all, from birth until now, the only men who have seen my breasts besides my father are my husband and son. The only ones I've touched are my husband and my son who was still a baby nursing.
He gently placed his warm hands on my breasts. Because of my nervousness, I felt my whole body tremble slightly. The masseur massaged my breasts very gently but skillfully, using a technique similar to but slightly different from the female masseur. I don't know if I'm overthinking it, but I felt that the male masseur's technique was a little... more like caressing? While rubbing the entire breast, he also gently stroked the edge of the areola with his fingers, and occasionally touched the two nipples. I tried to convince myself with my own wild thoughts that this was probably how the second half of the treatment was supposed to be, since the goal was to clear the milk ducts and eventually reach the nipples.
The masseuse massaged my breasts around the nipples with her fingers for a long time, then gently patted and pressed them from above and below. During this process, I could feel my breasts, which had been as hard as rocks from engorgement, soften considerably. Then, the masseuse placed her thumb and forefinger next to the areolas, constantly changing positions as she began to express milk.
My breasts already felt much better, and when she started expressing, it was as if all the acupoints had opened up, and everything became unobstructed. A comfortable feeling traveled from the bottom of my chest to my nipples, and a warm flow was released from the tips. This must be the legendary milk let-down reflex; the release of milk felt incredibly pleasurable, like a breast orgasm.
This wonderful feeling made me close my eyes in bliss. With the masseuse's skillful squeezing, the milk, which had started as a few drops, began to flow in a steady stream. After the masseuse increased the pressure, the milk gushed upwards in spurts. If it weren't for the towel draped over my waist, my skirt would have been soaked. I have to say, the technique was truly amazing. I had never felt so comfortable expressing milk from my breasts before, even having the milk spray out like a fountain. It was simply... amazing. I slowly tilted my head back, my whole body trembling. I felt like this was a caress. If my husband could do this in bed... Without realizing it, my two legs, clad in stockings, started rubbing together. It was so incredibly comfortable.
"I'll squeeze the milk out a little harder," the masseuse whispered, but at that moment, my breasts were gushing milk comfortably, and I was so overwhelmed with pleasure that I could barely speak.
"Okay..."
"Then I'll squeeze a little harder."
With that, as I was already overwhelmed with pleasure, the masseuse slightly increased the pressure on my breasts, and milk sprayed upwards like a fountain, some even landing on my face. But I felt waves of pleasure surging deep within my chest, a pleasure that seemed to reach my uterus. Close to orgasm, I couldn't help but moan softly.
"Ah... um... um..."
It really came! While the male masseur was kneading my breasts, I reached my first-ever breast orgasm. My mind went blank, as if my nipples and uterus were connected. My breasts, gushing milk, thrust upwards against the masseur's hands, my body convulsing. I vaguely felt one of the masseur's hands continuously squeezing my left breast, while the other seemed to be on... my thigh, gently stroking it up and down through the sheer stockings I was wearing. But with my hands gripping the sheets and trembling, I had no time to react, my eyes tightly closed as I received the uncontrollable, joyful current. After what seemed like an eternity, the masseur withdrew his hands, and I finally let my still-erect upper body slump back onto the massage bed.
Slightly out of breath, I glanced to the side and noticed the masseur's pants were swollen with a large bulge… He seemed to realize his embarrassment, quickly grabbing a towel to wipe his hands, which were covered in breast milk, and then placing another towel on my chest. I quickly sat up and wiped my breast-covered upper body myself. At the same time, the masseur opened the door and left.
Finally coming to my senses, I noticed breast milk stains on my skin-colored stockings. The masseur must have touched my thighs after getting his hands wet with my breast milk… “The customer can pay at the counter later.” Suddenly, a voice knocked from outside the door, waking me up. Was it the female masseur who had just left? I quickly put on my bra, changed back into my original clothes, picked up my child, and walked out of the massage room. The male masseur was nowhere to be seen; only the female masseur was waiting at the counter to pay.
“Is my colleague alright?” The female masseur was still panting, as if she had rushed back in a hurry. Come to think of it, I had no idea how long I had been getting a massage inside.
"Okay, okay." I must have been blushing furiously at that moment, so embarrassed I just wanted to disappear. After paying, I quickly carried my baby out of the studio.
—
It was almost dark when I got home. I opened the front door and found my son had already come home from school, his backpack and socks lying on the floor, watching TV. This kid is just like his dad; he comes home and immediately lies down to watch TV, ignoring everything else. Honestly.
Although I was supposed to be relaxing at the massage studio, the unexpected breast orgasm left me feeling incredibly tired. I put my sleeping baby back in his crib, then took off his breast-stained stockings in the laundry basket in the bathroom and went back to my room for a nap. When I came out of the bathroom, I saw my son still lying there watching TV, and I couldn't help but want to scold him.
"Xiao Zhong, don't leave your backpack on the floor, and take your socks to the laundry basket in the bathroom. Mommy's going to take a nap for a bit, then I'll get up to make dinner later." "Okay." He lazily got up from the sofa, picked up his smelly socks, and went into the bathroom.
Back in my room, I was so tired I immediately lay down. But after only a few minutes of lying down and closing my eyes, my phone, which was lying beside me, vibrated. It was the studio from earlier, saying I'd forgotten my baby's things there. They were closing in a few minutes, so I'd have to hurry if I wanted to get them. Thinking it was only a few minutes round trip, I decided to go get them. Just as I stepped out of the room, my son jumped back onto the sofa from the bathroom. I wondered what was wrong.
Before leaving, I put on a light jacket, then remembered it was a bit chilly outside. I decided to put my stockings back on so my legs wouldn't feel cold. So I went back to the bathroom, grabbed the stockings I'd taken off at home from the laundry basket, and quickly pulled them onto my feet before pushing open the door and leaving.
After walking a few steps, I suddenly felt something strange coming from outside my underwear… it was warm? With my back to the street, I reached under my skirt and felt around. I found a warm, sticky substance on the crotch of my stockings, soaking my underwear. I touched some with my finger and smelled it. It was white and had a distinctively pungent, masculine odor. This... semen? But my son is home alone, isn't he? ...But the lactation consultant said on the phone that the massage studio was closing in a few minutes, and if I didn't go to get the baby's things, I'd have to wait until tomorrow. I couldn't think too much about it and just hurried out. Enduring the sticky feeling from the crotch of my stockings as I swayed my legs, I quickly reached the studio, grabbed the baby's things from the counter, and then strode home as if nothing had happened.
I pushed open the door, but my son wasn't in the living room; he seemed to have gone back to his room and closed the door. I quickly went into the bathroom, turned on the light, and lifted my skirt to look down. I noticed that the white, sticky fluid on the crotch of my stockings had foamed slightly from the friction of my movements. I touched the fluid on the stockings again and smelled it, confirming that it was indeed male semen. I took off the stained sheer stockings and found the crotch area covered in this foul-smelling white liquid, some of which had even seeped onto my black lace panties—quite noticeable. I quickly pulled off my panties as well, thinking: regardless of whether my son had actually done anything, what if the semen seeped through my panties and then onto my genitals, and I accidentally got pregnant?
I took off the semen-stained stockings and panties and threw them into the laundry basket, straightened my skirt, and left the bathroom. At the same time, my husband pushed open the door, calling out that he was home and very hungry. I didn't have time to think about the slightly chaotic situation that had just occurred. I went back to the room to check that the baby was sleeping soundly, then went into the kitchen to start preparing dinner,
putting what had just happened out of my mind. After preparing dinner, my mind a bit blank, I called my son and husband to the dining room to eat. I also pulled the baby's crib next to the dining room while keeping an eye on her. Only then did I have time to think about what had just happened. My husband, of course, was eating dinner oblivious to what had happened. My son's head was lowered, avoiding eye contact with me, just picking at his food and putting it in his mouth. My mind raced, but was still a bit confused, trying to figure out what had just happened. Did my son ejaculate inside my stockings? Was it accidental? But could this be accidental? Why? Could my son ejaculate? Isn't he only in the second year of middle school? Why would he ejaculate inside my stockings? Why did the stockings touch his genitals? "Honey, did you go for a breast massage today? How was it?" My husband's sudden question interrupted my chaotic thoughts and quickly pulled me back from my mental turmoil.
"Oh yeah, it was quite helpful, it hurts less now."
"That's good. Are all the massages done by women?"
"Yes, all the masseuses are women." I thought it best not to let my husband know that there were male masseuses there, especially since I had been massaged by a male masseur, and even had a breast orgasm... "That's good, otherwise it would be awkward if it were a male masseur, like getting aroused or something, haha..." "What are you talking about? Our son's here." "Okay, okay, haha..." I glanced at my son out of the corner of my eye; he didn't seem to react at all, just continued eating with his head down.
Although my son is usually quiet, he would at least occasionally chime in on our conversations, but today he was really silent. Was he bothered by the fact that he used my stockings? What was my son trying to do? Was this puberty or something...? "I'm full." My son quickly stood up, the sound of him clearing the dishes interrupting another wave of my thoughts. Maybe I'll talk to him about today later; teenagers are going through a lot of transitions, and these kinds of things are common. Okay!
I told myself again that this was normal, just my son slowly maturing. I'll talk to him about relationships later.
After putting the dishes in the sink, my son went back to his room. Usually, I might remind him to do his homework, but today I felt a little strange and didn't talk to him. After finishing my meal, I prepared to clear the dishes. As I stood up, my skirt fluttered, and I realized I wasn't wearing underwear! Luckily, only my husband and son were home, so no one would notice. Standing in front of the sink, I suddenly realized something, glanced back at my husband watching TV in the living room to make sure he wasn't looking, then lifted my skirt and brushed it down—it was wet! It's strange, I wasn't really stimulated. I was just thinking about my son, how could that cause a reaction? What's going on...? I was indeed quite stimulated at the massage parlor this afternoon, even though it was a male masseur giving me a lactation massage, which I feel a little guilty towards my husband. But now, thinking back to that pleasurable feeling still makes me itch. On second thought, it's been a long time since my husband and I have been intimate. How about tonight? My husband has lost interest in sex since I gave birth. I wonder if it's because he thinks my figure has changed... But I look in the mirror and weigh myself, and I haven't changed much, unless my breasts have gotten two cup sizes bigger, which my husband doesn't like.
After having this thought, I quickly finished the housework, took a shower, fed the baby, changed into my sexy open-crotch black stockings and black lace bra that I hadn't worn in a long time, and went back to the room to wait for my husband to finish watching TV. My husband has always liked stockings, so when I want to seduce him, all sorts of different colored stockings become my special armor, and the success rate is quite high... of course, provided he's not exhausted after work that day.
Before he finishes watching TV at nine o'clock, I've already changed into my armor and hidden under the covers, hiding my upper body, just waiting for him to come back to the room. When he pushed open the door, he only asked me if I was already going to sleep. I smiled and pulled back the covers, and my husband, quite obliging, immediately widened his eyes and his breathing became rapid.
"Honey, I want some today, is that okay?"
"Okay, just a minute! I'll shower quickly!"
After saying that, he quickly rushed into the bathroom to shower. I knew stockings would work on him, otherwise, I would always say I was tired from work or that I wasn't feeling well that day when I tried to seduce him. Sure enough, he couldn't resist wearing open-crotch black stockings.
In just a few minutes, my husband finished showering, opened the bathroom door, jumped onto the bed, and started groping me. We've been married for so many years, we're pretty much in sync. But my husband's caresses are quite simple; he just rubs my breasts, touches my stockinged legs, and prepares to penetrate. Today, even though I changed into sexy lingerie, his routine didn't change. He just vigorously rubbed my breasts, which have increased to 32g after childbirth, with basically no special techniques.
I felt great this afternoon when a strange lactation consultant massaged my breasts, but my husband's massage felt like he was just massaging a pillow. Although comparing my husband to a stranger feels a bit unfair to him, the feeling of the breast massage this afternoon was really intense, so intense that it's unforgettable. But it's been a long time since we've had sex, so I'm not asking for much today. No change is no change; let's just have a fight.
After massaging my breasts for about a minute or two, my husband prepared to penetrate. After putting on a condom himself, he had me lie down with my legs spread open. My husband looked down at me, grabbed my legs, which were clad in black open-crotch stockings, and pressed his familiar penis against the entrance of my vagina, slowly breaking in.
I'd forgotten how long it had been since we last made love—weeks, a month or two, maybe two or three months?
Although my husband's foreplay was a bit perfunctory, the feeling of his hot, hard penis inside me was still incredibly satisfying. My vagina, parched from the drought, was already overflowing with lubrication, and my husband's movements became smoother.
"Feels good, doesn't it, honey?"
"You don't need to tell me..."
My husband swayed his firm hips back and forth, his stiff penis thrusting in and out of my wet vulva, his hands moving from my black-stockinged calves to my 32g breasts. His strong hands squeezed my breasts hard; it wasn't uncomfortable, but there wasn't much skill involved. Maybe I couldn't ask for too much; we'd been married for so many years, he'd improve by now.
"It's a bit too good, let me change positions," my husband said, pulling out after about thirty seconds, a little out of breath. I knew stamina had never been his strong suit, especially after so long, he was probably even more sensitive. I rolled over and lay face down on the bed, my shapely buttocks, clad in open-crotch black stockings, facing his penis. He took a deep breath and then thrust in again.
I unhooked my black lace bra, letting my two large, snow-white breasts breathe. With each thrust from behind, my breasts swayed rhythmically back and forth. My husband pinched my breasts from behind, applying pressure—a painful yet pleasurable sensation, which was alright.
"My wife has huge breasts, it feels so good."
"You're only just realizing that? How long has it been since you've touched them... ah..."
After pinching my breasts, my husband's rhythm gradually quickened. Based on countless past experiences, once he started accelerating, it was obvious he was close to climax. But I hadn't reached my climax yet, just a little bit more... "Ah... I'm coming..." My husband grabbed my stockinged buttocks and thrust forward one last time, then forcefully pushed his penis deep inside me, ejaculating into the condom with each jerk. I could feel his condom-covered penis trembling inside my vagina; it must have felt incredibly good.
He ejaculated in about ten seconds, pulled off the condom, and lay down on his back, panting heavily.
"That felt so good, honey, did you come?" he asked smugly, panting.
"Yes, honey, you were great."
But actually, I hadn't. In all these years of marriage, I could count the number of orgasms on one hand. Countless times I felt like I was just a little short, but I was used to it by now. The breast orgasm I experienced this afternoon with a stranger at the massage parlor was more pleasurable than actual intercourse. Is this really what you call a tragic sex life?
My husband threw the condom in the trash and went back to the bathroom for another shower. After he came out, I quietly showered and went back to bed. We pulled the covers up, ending the night's uneventful sex life smoothly but unsatisfactorily.
—I've
wondered, is having sex a luxury for breastfeeding mothers? Should I stop hoping for anything other than taking care of my daughter? Actually, since late pregnancy, I've had a very strong sex drive, perhaps due to hormones, but my husband was afraid of harming the baby, so we didn't have sex. We probably just watched porn and masturbated. I thought our sex life would return to normal after childbirth, but in reality, nothing changed after the baby was born.
I picked up my daughter, who was still nursing, and walked to the mirror. Looking at myself in a short-sleeved t-shirt, I noticed my waistline had returned to its pre-pregnancy 24-inch size, and my hips were quite firm due to continuous exercise. My breasts had gone from 32E to 32G, and besides being larger and more elastic, they were definitely more attractive. Did my husband not like big breasts? He always seemed to like them. Or is it just that middle-aged men are getting older and their abilities can't keep up with their needs?
While I was lost in thought, my lovely daughter, who had been nursing sweetly, seemed to have had enough and slowly closed her eyes and fell asleep. After putting her back in her crib and covering her, I reached out and massaged both breasts. It seemed there was still quite a bit of milk left. Afraid that if I didn't express it all, I'd get another bout of mastitis and the excruciating pain, so I took out an electric breast pump from the cabinet and pumped directly from my breasts into a bottle. As I pumped, perhaps because I had too much milk, I started to feel like I couldn't stop. I grabbed a nearby glass and started pumping into it. As the milk slowly gushed out, the feeling of my breasts gradually emptying was much more comfortable, and I felt so much lighter.
I filled the glass almost to the brim, and my breasts were probably almost empty, so I put the glass down and went to the bathroom to dry my breasts and clean the breast pump. I heard the door open from the bathroom; my son must have come home from school by now. I tidied myself up and came out of the bathroom, only to see my son picking up the glass from the dining table and pouring it into his mouth.
"Ah, that's..." Before I could stop him, I could only utter half a sentence as my son was already gulping down all the warm breast milk I had just expressed.
After finishing the glass, my son exhaled, licked his lips contentedly, and then, after a few seconds, looked at the empty glass as if something was amiss. "Mom, this milk tastes a bit like…" Feeling a little embarrassed, I slowly said, "That's extra breast milk that Mom just expressed…" My son raised an eyebrow, staring at me with wide eyes, "Really…really? I was just about to say the taste…" "I'm sorry, it probably tastes awful, and you accidentally drank some." "No, it's just that it's a bit strange, different from regular milk, but it's sweet and delicious." My son scratched his head and continued, "I think it tastes better than regular milk. I was just wondering if there was any more, haha." After saying that, my son seemed to realize that what he said was a bit odd, and we stared at each other for a moment before he didn't say anything more and turned to go back to his room. However, for me, if I put the milk that my daughter couldn't finish in the freezer, it would be a complete waste if it spoiled and I still couldn't finish it. On second thought, it wouldn't be such a waste if I expressed it and gave it to my son, since he drank my milk when he was little. As for my husband, forget it. He hates cow's milk, so he probably wouldn't like breast milk either… The next morning, after feeding my daughter, I pumped out a glass of breast milk, just like yesterday, and placed it on the dining table. When my son came out of his room after washing up, he didn't notice the glass of milk on the table at first. I tried to speak to him in a normal tone, "Xiao Zhong, you can have some of the extra milk on the table." My son paused for a moment, but his expression didn't change. He walked to the table, picked up the glass, sniffed it like a puppy, and then brought the breast milk to his mouth, gulping it down. After finishing, just like drinking cow's milk, he licked off a trace of milk from his lips.
"Delicious!" My son smiled brightly and gave me a thumbs up. I smiled back at him.
For the next few days, pumping extra milk for my son became a regular routine. My son drinks the warm breast milk I express before going to school. It's pretty much the same as drinking cow's milk, I think, so I shouldn't overthink it. He drank all my milk when he was little, so having a large milk supply is actually beneficial, right? Like, I can feed two children at once.
This morning was the same. After feeding my daughter, I picked up the breast pump to express another cup for my son. But when I turned it on, the light wasn't on, and the machine wasn't working. After fiddling with it and trying to turn it on and off a few times, I figured it was probably broken. What to do? Even if I didn't give the remaining milk to my son, I couldn't leave it unexpressed, or I might get mastitis. So I unbuttoned my top and started manually expressing the milk into a glass.
I haven't expressed milk much, and my technique isn't as skilled as a professional lactation consultant. But I couldn't force it in this difficult situation, so I slowly squeezed the milk from my nipple into the glass.
Although it didn't require much strength, my hand quickly became sore.
"Good morning, Mom, ah..."
My son came out of his room and saw me unbutton my shirt, revealing my two snow-white 32g breasts, my hands laboriously expressing milk. He froze, staring wide-eyed at my movements, probably also staring at my breasts. Honestly, my son suddenly coming out and staring at my breasts really startled me, because I thought he might not be out for another ten minutes. Having my breasts seen by him like this, especially while I was expressing milk, was really a little embarrassing.
But then I thought, since he usually just suckles directly from the nipple, it shouldn't be too bad if he sees it now, after all, he's my son. So I tried to appear calm, subtly continuing to press down on my brown areolas, expressing milk into a glass.
"Not done yet?" my son asked.
"Just a little longer." I continued expressing milk without changing my expression, but I have to admit, my hands were really sore!
My son went straight to the dining table and sat down in the chair next to me, watching me squeeze my breasts to release milk from a closer distance. My
arms were probably too sore, and I only managed to squeeze about half a cup before I stopped and gently shook my arms.
My son saw this too, and touched my knee, which was covered by sheer flesh-colored stockings, saying, "Mom, are your arms tired?" "Just a little. Now you realize how hard Mom works." "Can I help Mom?" "Huh?" My son's suggestion to help me left me momentarily stunned. Before I could react, he stretched out his right hand, stopping about thirty centimeters away from my left breast, seemingly about to touch it directly, giving me no time to think.
"Is it to pinch the nipple?" my son asked tentatively, then his hand was already on my breast. The warm hand touching my round breast felt like an electric current running through my body, making me shiver instantly. Thinking back, the last time my son touched my breast was more than ten years ago; that little baby is almost an adult now.
My son's hand trembled slightly as he gently pinched my nipple. The strange sensation my son's hand gave me was hard to describe, but since he had already touched me, I had to show him the correct technique.
"No, it's the area around the areola. Pressing the nipple will hurt a bit." I grabbed his hand with one hand, guiding his slender fingers to encircle my nipple and areola. With my other hand, I held a half-full glass against my left breast, letting him gently apply pressure to express milk from the nipple. Milk spurted from the nipple into the glass under the pressure of his fingers, making my son gasp softly, "Wow!" "Like that...good." I placed my right hand on my stockinged thigh, and continued to hold the glass against my left breast with my left hand. Although my son's hand was only gently pressing the areola where I told him to, it gave me a very strange feeling. Especially as the milk spurted out in gushes, the tingling sensation gradually intensified, slowly spreading from my left breast to my entire upper body in waves.
I took a breath and reached out to stop my son's right hand. He seemed startled and trembled, probably thinking I was going to stop. But instead, I placed his right hand on my full right breast and told him,
"Switch to the other side."
My son, recovering from his brief shock, continued expressing milk from my soft right breast. The tingling sensation shifted from my left to my right, and each time the milk flowed smoothly through my nipple and sprayed into the cup, it became an indescribable pleasure. Besides relieving the engorged breast milk, it also brought an embarrassingly pleasurable sensation, almost like sexual pleasure.
Although it was just simple milking, while pressing on my areola, my son placed his entire right hand on my breast, gently massaging it with his thumb and forefinger. I hadn't expected such a simple action to bring me sexual pleasure. I closed my eyes, biting my lip to endure the tingling pleasure, wanting to moan but afraid my son would hear and embarrass me.
A few seconds after closing my eyes, I felt my son place his left hand on my right leg. Although I wasn't going out early in the morning, I sometimes wear stockings indoors because my legs get cold easily. I opened my eyes and saw him gently stroking my thigh, which was covered in sheer skin-colored stockings, while his right hand continuously pressed against my large, white breasts, causing milk to spray out. My
son was staring intently at my breasts, and the pressure of his right hand on my breast and his left hand on my stockinged thigh had increased slightly. I endured the continuous pleasure spreading throughout my body from my right breast, and my right hand, which was holding the cup to collect the milk, trembled. I glanced down and was surprised to find that my son's uniform pants had a tent in his private area. Seeing that my son had actually become erect because of rubbing my breasts made me blush instantly. Just as I saw my son's erection, I realized that the cup was almost full, so I hurriedly slapped my son's hand.
"Okay, okay, it's almost full!"
My son, who had been staring intently at my chest, was startled by my sudden movement, and his whole body trembled violently. His right hand pinched my breast hard, and his left hand gripped my thigh covered in sheer stockings.
"Ah...ah...ah...!"
As if out of control, my son's lower body began to tremble unnaturally, twitching at a frequency of about once per second, almost making his entire buttocks bounce up. He unconsciously let out soft "ah ah ah" sounds. The hand that squeezed my breasts also brought me a slightly painful but very stimulating tingling pleasure. It was
obvious that my son had ejaculated...
I trembled slightly as I placed the cup full of warm breast milk on the table. At the same time, my son seemed to come to his senses and released his hands. Several large drops of milk dripped from my right breast, and my left breast, which had not been touched for a while, also dripped a few drops of milk, probably from overstimulation. The white breast milk dripped onto my thigh, which was clad in skin-colored stockings. My son hurriedly grabbed a tissue from the table and quickly wiped the breast milk that had dripped onto my stockings. When he touched my breasts, I shuddered again. But I noticed that right after my son ejaculated, semen had seeped out of his pants, leaving a wet, sticky stain that made it necessary to change his pants.
I gently pointed to his crotch, and he looked down, quickly put down the toilet paper, stood up with a flushed face, and rushed back to his room. "Hurry up and change before school!" I urged him, but he didn't respond from his room.
—The
problem of excessive milk production has always existed. After the baby is full, if I don't express all the milk, I often get mastitis. Since the breast pump broke down, I haven't had time to buy another one, so hand expression seems to work, although sometimes my arms get sore. Since the last time my son helped express milk, it seems to have become commonplace for him to help me express milk on his own initiative.
That afternoon, when my son came home from school, I had just put my daughter down to sleep and was expressing milk at home.
After my son got home, I didn't try to hide it and continued to massage my breasts slowly in the living room.
"Why is Mommy keeping massaging her breasts?" My son put down his schoolbag, his eyes fixed on my hand movements.
"Because if I don't finish expressing all the milk for my sister, it will get inflamed, and my breasts will feel a little uncomfortable. I need to massage them to improve blood circulation," I answered him while continuing my movements.
"Then let me help Mommy."
With that, my son naturally sat down on the sofa, leaning against me, as if this was the most natural thing in the world. Since my son had already helped me express milk last time, I treated this as a normal thing this time and simply let him help me.
"Use both hands." I slightly turned my lower body, clad in black sheer stockings and a tight skirt, towards my son, opened my shirt, unhooked my bra, turned my upper body towards him, and then took his hands and placed them directly on my 32g snow-white breasts. My son's hands trembled slightly the moment they touched my breasts, but he was much calmer than last time. My son's left leg, clad in athletic shorts, touched my right leg, clad in sheer black stockings, but I didn't care.
"Xiao Zhong, massage gently, starting from the top of my breasts towards the nipples, and massaging from the bottom as well," I gently instructed my son, using the same massage technique I had learned from the lactation consultant. Because of his short stature, his hands weren't large, appearing somewhat disproportionate to my large breasts, but he still massaged them very gently from top to bottom and side to side, quickly relieving the pressure on both my breasts.
"Squeeze a little harder, there are mammary glands in Mommy's breasts, massaging them makes Mommy feel very comfortable..." Suddenly feeling a bit strange saying "feels very comfortable," I added, "When massaging the mammary glands, Mommy feels her breasts feel more relaxed." My son attentively and obediently pressed and massaged my two soft, large breasts. Honestly, my technique was far inferior to the lactation consultant's, both in skill and experience. But a feeling, seemingly from nowhere, spread from the outside in, making me feel incredibly comfortable from my breasts to the depths of my body, and that tingling, comfortable feeling slowly transformed into a pleasurable sensation with his massage movements.
"Does this make Mommy feel comfortable?" I felt my son squeezing my breasts with both hands, and he slightly increased the pressure, pressing his legs tightly against my long legs clad in sheer black stockings.
"It feels so good..." The pleasure was almost indescribable, but I was thoroughly enjoying my son's massage of my breasts. Honestly, it felt even better than when my husband and I made love.
Whether it was instinct or not, my son's massage of my breasts gradually turned into caresses, something he would never normally do.
The pleasure from my breasts quickly intensified, and the intense stimulation made me arch my back to let them touch my son's hands more. My son then instinctively started circling my areolas with his fingers, even gently pressing my nipples with his fingertips. An electric-like sexual pleasure surged from deep within my uterus, shooting through my nipples like a continuous line—it felt so good.
"Mom, you're leaking milk..."
My son reminded me, and I realized that my milk was already flowing uncontrollably. I had only intended to massage my mammary glands and hadn't yet started expressing milk, so there were no cups or containers on the living room table.
"Xiao Zhong, you can use a pump." I could almost hear my voice trembling as I said this. But my son didn't hesitate at all; he immediately took my nipple in his mouth, sucking hard on my right breast and drawing a large amount of milk directly into his mouth.
"Ah…!" A large amount of breast milk entered my son's mouth through my nipple, and at the same time, the pleasure from my nipple made me tilt my head back, close my eyes, and moan. My son didn't suck very hard, probably afraid of hurting my nipple. But the stimulation of sucking without even trying was already incredibly pleasurable, and I couldn't help but urge my son, "Xiao Zhong, it's okay to suck harder." Receiving the order, my son sucked even harder, and I could feel the milk flowing directly into his throat in an unprecedented amount. My son's hands also temporarily stopped massaging my breasts and directly grabbed my thigh, which was clad in sheer black stockings, and gently stroked it back and forth.
How could it feel so good? I asked myself silently. Wanting my son to suck more, I put one arm around the back of his head and pulled him closer to me, just like when I was a baby breastfeeding. The waves of pleasure emanating from my nipples were relentless, unlike anything I'd ever experienced before. My son suckled for several minutes before finally releasing his mouth to catch his breath, then moving his mouth to the other breast for another assault of pleasure. It
was as if he possessed an insatiable talent for sex; he even began to use his tongue to caress and tease my nipples from bottom to top while sucking on them. He boldly and forcefully sucked the nipple, areola, and surrounding flesh directly into his mouth, completely filling his not-so-large mouth with my snow-white breasts. This no longer resembled a child suckling at his mother's milk; it was a man using his tongue and mouth to caress the 32g breasts of a woman in heat, except that the man and woman were a son and his mother, whose milk was overflowing from breastfeeding.
I rested my chin on my son's head, savoring the pleasure his mouth brought to my snow-white breasts. Unbeknownst to me, his erect penis had already emerged from beside my school shorts, pressing against my legs clad in sheer black stockings, one in front and one behind.
"Mmm…!" Suddenly, my son thrust forward forcefully, slamming his erect penis against my stockinged legs. His swollen glans sprayed hot fluid forcefully onto my sheer black stockings with a "plop." His mouth stopped sucking and instead forcefully took my swollen nipples into its mouth, bringing me to the peak of a breast orgasm. I trembled with pleasure, feeling a large amount of vaginal fluid gushing out, seemingly about to overflow my underwear, stockings, and skirt.
My son and I hugged tightly, reaching a double orgasm through my teardrop-shaped 32g breasts. My son's semen gushed out like a tidal wave onto my long legs, staining my thighs, clad in black sheer stockings, with a large amount of white, foul-smelling semen. After embracing for what seemed like an eternity, I finally released my son's head, letting his mouth leave my swollen nipples.
We got up without a word; my son went back to his room, while I fastened my bra, pulled up my clothes, and tossed my soaking black sheer stockings into the laundry basket. Then I started doing housework as if nothing had happened.
That evening, after my husband came home, we ate dinner and chatted casually about our day.
Of course, I didn't mention to my son that he had massaged my breasts, which had escalated into me being sucked until I orgasmed, and that he had ejaculated on my stockinged thighs.
After washing the dishes, my son had already showered and gone to his room to study, so it was my turn to shower.
As soon as I entered the bathroom, I smelled a distinctively pungent male odor. Looking towards the source of the smell, sure enough, it was the black stockings I had placed on top of the laundry basket. I picked up the sticky stockings. When I took them off, the thigh area was already covered in semen, and now, as I picked them up, I noticed a large, still-warm puddle of white semen at the crotch.
I held the stockings, soaked with semen, to my nose. The pungent, fishy smell of semen was incredibly strong. I hadn't expected such a concentration after ejaculation a second time. Was this normal for virgins, or was this kid just too excited?
The smell, though foul, had a strong masculine scent that made me inhale deeply, arousing me as well. I went even further, sticking out my tongue and licking the cooling semen on the black stockings. The bleach-like stench and the tingling sensation on my tongue shot up to my throat. It tasted awful, but for some reason, I felt an urge to eat it.
The moment I tasted my son's semen, reason seemed to vanish. I quickly stripped off all my clothes, but then put the sticky, transparent black stockings back on. As I pulled the stockings up, I felt the semen sticking to my legs. Normally, this would have been disgusting, but now it felt incredibly exciting. Even before I made any other movements, I felt my vagina rapidly secreting a gush of fluid, which immediately dripped onto my thighs.
I quickly pulled the sheer black stockings back onto my body. Because my son had ejaculated in my crotch area a second time, my entire vulva was covered in his semen, a large patch of cloudy white fluid covering my genitals. It should have been utterly disgusting, but it also incredibly arousing. I sat on the bathroom floor with my legs open, rubbing my 32g breasts with my left hand, while my right fingers forcefully squeezed the thick semen through the stockings, drawing it deep into my vagina.
I've almost never masturbated in my life, only a few times when I was a student and had just learned how. But now, wearing these thin black stockings soaked with my son's semen, I felt like a seasoned masturbator. The crotch area was covered by a T-string, but my fingers were surprisingly strong. I forcefully dug into my wet, sticky vagina, through the stockings, unsure if it was from semen or vaginal fluid. The mixture of my son's and my own fluids lubricated the synthetic fibers of the stockings within my elastic vagina, making my fingers work incredibly smoothly, reaching the deepest point they could. Before, reaching this point with just my fingers didn't produce a strong sensation; but now, through the stockings, the delicate feel against my skin, yet so rough against my vaginal mucosa, instantly sent me to ecstasy. My left hand, kneading her soft, large breasts, almost instantly began to spurt milk from her nipples, causing my vagina to burst forth with a torrent of vaginal fluid, a release only at the peak of climax. My body, churned by my son's semen and the black stockings being rubbed into my vagina, reached another peak of sexual desire, following the afternoon when my son had suckled my breast.
—Usually
, after orgasm, whether during sex or masturbation, there's an indescribable sense of regret. Some say that's saintly mode, like regretting wasting those few minutes doing something like that. But after that time wearing stockings stained with my son's semen and vigorously masturbating, I didn't feel any regret at all. Maybe it was like rain after a long drought, or maybe I'm just so lewd that I find masturbating with stockings my son has ejaculated on enjoyable?
I don't know what my son is thinking, but a sinister thought seems to be rapidly growing within me. The intimate contact with my son, beyond the parent-child bond, has transformed what should have been a warm and loving atmosphere into a taboo, incestuous thrill. Anyway, no one knows, and my son seems to enjoy it too. Giving him a chance to make me feel good, or even to make each other feel good, doesn't seem like a big deal, no matter how absurd things become afterward. In the end, it always seems like it all comes back to this: anyway, no one knows.

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